


I should have bet more

by xphil98197



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphil98197/pseuds/xphil98197
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are other things than conventional anniversaries to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I should have bet more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LauraRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraRose/gifts).



He didn’t realize that his mind had wandered, until a drop of sweat hit the chart in front of him. That shook him from the day dream, the clench in his gut. He realized that his hands were stroking the air where last night he had tugged on those curls, and let out a groan as he checked the clock, too long until closing time. 

John’s hands wandered to his groin, and he pressed at the bulge in frustration. He debated going in the bathroom to take care of it, but just then the buzzer on his desk sounded, letting him know that the next patient was there.

Sherlock was where he had left him, in his mind palace, cataloging. After every encounter, he would retreat to the sofa beneath the bullet holes, and etch every detail into the canvas of his memory. John’s touch, his smell, and his eyes. 

The eyes drove him to distraction, drove him crazy, and drove him to a need for more. Far worse than the cocaine, this was something for which there was no detox. There was no cure for the desire which left him in flames. And this disease required something that medicine couldn’t cure.

_‘Have another cup of tea’_ , his phone chimed with a message.

_‘How do you always know?’_

_‘Because with all the time you spent texting me, you skipped lunch to make up for it. Dinner will be waiting.’_

***

Sherlock met him at the door, having attempted to cook dinner. It was rare for him to try something that domestic, and John looked at him thoughtfully.

“Did I forget something?” he asked.

“You moved in today, all those years ago,” Sherlock smiled. With his eidetic memory, this is a day he never allows to be missed, although he forgot all the more conventional ones, like holidays and birthdays.

“You never forget,” John brushed the away the graying curl of hair that was falling into Sherlock’s eyes.

“It's the least I can remember,” Sherlock bent to kiss him, “After all the times you’ve saved me.”

“I would have given up, after Afghanistan,” John argued.

“You would have found a reason to keep going, other than an anti-social consulting detective, and a male one,” Sherlock retorted. “After all of your ‘I’m not gay’. I should have bet more money.”

“You bet on us?” John let out a squeak.

“Only with the Yard, and it was hardly enough money for your ring,” Sherlock fingered the worn band on John’s finger. “It was mostly Lestrade, and I happen to know that he bet Mycroft’s money anyway.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” John murmured. “I’ve learned plenty about how to hide bodies over the years.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. “And then who would suck your cock?”

“Oy, you act like that’s the only reason I keep you around,” John smacked him. “Now serve me some of the masterpiece of yours, Mr. Holmes.”

“Only if you’ll let me feed it to you, Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock teased back. He wrapped the worn blue scarf around John’s neck.

“Oh, we’re playing that tonight, are we?” John reaches to tug at the hair around his collar, a sure way to make him go limp with pleasure.

Sherlock has learned to be more comfortable with sex, after the amount of time they’ve been together. But there are some things that still make him blush, and asking John to use the scarf is one of them.

Sherlock has set the table, and true to his word, feeds John every bite. The meal is a fond reminder of Angelo’s, which closed down years earlier. But on this day every year, Sherlock sets the table with a candle, and makes some sort of a pasta dish.

The dishes don’t make it to the sink, but they don’t have sex on the table either, which is a record over previous years. John manages to get Sherlock to swallow at least some of the meal, before he slides the scarf around Sherlock’s neck and uses it to lead him up the stairs.

The scarf tightens around the slender column of his pale throat, the blue the same shade as his veins. John has tied a slip knot, that will tighten as he pulls on it.

“Get undressed,” John orders, as he strips off his own clothes. Sherlock hurries to obey, John’s use of his Captain’s voice make him shiver.

“Kneel on the bed,” John’s voice is rough, appreciative. He takes a moment to look Sherlock over like he is a river after a desert trek. 

Sherlock rushes to obey, the mate to John’s ring on his finger. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He clears his throat, and tries again.

“Thank you,” he says shyly. 

John lifts an eyebrow.

“For putting up with me.” 

“You git,” John says fondly. “Come here.” He gathers Sherlock into his arms, the familiar form of his lover comfortable weight. He pours lube onto his fingers to warm it, Sherlock’s warm back pulled tight against his shoulder.

He tightens the scarf in his other hand, and strokes Sherlock’s cock with the one slicked with lube. “Let’s start with twenty seconds?”

Sherlock’s eager nod is all the permission he needs. They have been lovers for over a decade now, and the parameters of their consent have long been negotiated.

“Twenty,” John says out loud, loosening the scarf with quick, physician’s fingers.

“More,” Sherlock pleads. He has gone pliant in John’s lap, quiet.

“Thirty, then?” John bites at the juncture of his shoulder as he tightens the scarf again. He’s hard, but deliciously so, a pleasant ache in his belly. He finds himself rutting against Sherlock’s arse as he finishes the mental count.

Sherlock’s arousal has stained his cheeks pink, and his tongue darts out to wet dry lips. John claims him for a rough kiss, Sherlock’s head pulled backward and chest heaving. Sherlock makes a gratifying sound of loss when John pulls away. He slicks up his cock; Sherlock took for granted there would be sex, and is prepared.

He sinks into the wiry body beneath him, tightening the scarf again. This time he counts to thirty out loud, each movement punctuated by a sharp accent of speech. He loosens the scarf and slows his movements, and Sherlock grabs at his hand, white knuckled.

“I have you,” he said, his voice sure. 

“Please?” Sherlock begs, raspy from lack of air.

“One,”John tightens the scarf, a breath in his ear. Sherlock jerks in his hand, precum dripping down John’s fingers. It takes a combination of physical stimulation and mental distraction to allow him to find release, and John handles his body as expertly as he handles stitches. “Thirty,” he loosens the scarf again, and Sherlock whines with the loss.

“You’ll come for me,” John says, certain of it. “One… two…” There was less of a break this time, and Sherlock’s vision starts to cloud. Rather than focus on the lack of air, he revels in the quiet in his head, giving himself up to his husband’s hands.

“Thirty,” John snarls, the orgasm overtaking them both. He just remembers to loosen the scarf before he collapses on top of Sherlock, their fingers clenched together.

It takes them a minute to collect their respective limbs and untangle, John pulling Sherlock into his arms. There are a few murmured, sleepy endearments, before John tugs the covers over them both.

***

John woke to Sherlock's mouth on his cock, those ice eyes sparkling with desire. Sherlock was already pouring lube, stroking his fingers like he touched himself.

"Good morning, love," John smiled down at him, sleep still in his eyes.

Sherlock growled, but the corners of his lips turned up as he slid two fingers into John. He curled them and rubbed the knuckles on John's sweet spot.

"God Sherlock, warning". John's legs give a shudder as Sherlock’s fingers bottom out inside him, then Sherlock's finger flicked hard and John felt like his skin was too tight. Sherlock is a man on a mission, adding a third finger, and sucking on John's cock like its life support. 

"You can- you can put it ALL in, Sherlock, if you'd like," John whispered, his voice gone raspy.

"All?" Sherlock looks like a child given the key to a candy store.

"Your fist, Sherlock," John says. "Haven't you heard of that?" John knows he has been doing research, because Sherlock does it on John's laptop. And never closes a window or clears the browsing history.

"Isn't that just in porn?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, lifting his head. Clearly he remembers the last time he tried something from a porn, and John came home to Sherlock playing with vegetables, and had to explain just how many cases of that he had seen at the surgery.

"No love," John chuckled. "Want to try?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was a dozen murders and a world takeover. He gaped at John, mouth wide.

"Come on Sherlock, don't tell me that great brain finally stopped working." John squeezed around Sherlock's fingers and Sherlock moaned.

"No, I am still capable..." He started thrusting his fingers in and out, "of reason- reasoning- reasonable- thoughts. Good God John! My fist? You are tight and my fingers are long and-"

"If you don't want to-?" John looked at Sherlock through his sandy blond lashes. 

Sherlock's rotating his fist around slowly, and John is past the point of begging. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and he is calling a name and he isn't sure if it's god or Sherlock and it doesn't matter because they are the same.

He squeezes and bears down, once, twice, and then he comes so hard cum squirts on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's mouth forms an O of surprise, and his cock spurts without being touched. John's legs shake and the spasms keep going. Sherlock reaches down and starts pulling John's cock, working him through another fast orgasm that has John squeezing his legs shut, Sherlock's fist trapped. 

Sherlock looks like a man who has seen divinity itself.

It takes John a minute to catch his breath. 

"Did you-? Was that-?"

"Oh John," Sherlock moans, "you are magnificent."

John's belly spasmed with pleasure and Sherlock wiggles his fingers.

"Careful love," John carded his fingers through the inky black curls. "Go easy."

"You are marvelous, John," Sherlock didn't wax poetic like this, even on cocaine. He pulled his fingers free with a wet sucking noise. "Incomparable."

It's not often that John bottoms, but Sherlock's reaction are worth the residual soreness. 

“C’mere,” he smiled sleepily, reaching for the towel on the nightstand. “We’ve made a proper mess.” Sherlock makes a rough noise of agreement before turning off the lights and burrowing under the blankets. He would crawl into John’s skin if he could, it seems sometimes.

“Did you set the alarm?” Sherlock asked with a yawn. “Don’t want you to be late.”

“I’m off today, nothing to do but laze about,” John smiled. “We have the whole weekend, in fact. I thought we could go take a look at that farmhouse you’ve been mentioning in Sussex. All your books about bees lying around were a rather unsubtle hint, love.”

“Well you’ve been hinting about retiring forever, and since you cut your hours… well I thought we could do other things,” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s greyed hair.

“We have always talked about traveling, and maybe we could see places that don’t involve morgue visits,” John nodded.

“Aren’t you going to be bored?” Sherlock asked, worried. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there when they met.

“You’re still a right handful love, I don’t think that will ever happen.”


End file.
